


All Things Bright and Beautiful

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mpreg, farming, john is a farmhand, sherlock is a shepherd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 10:50:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8398747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: Sherlock opened the door. There stood a short man, dripping wet and chilled to the bone, and handsome-"What did you do, walk the whole way from the village? Get inside, you'll catch your death, are you mad?" Sherlock scoffed, and pulled the man roughly inside and verily slammed the door behind him. He pulled the drenched coat off and tossed it in a pile in the corner, and, ignoring the man's protests divested him of the rest of his clothing until he was standing in a puddle of wet garments, naked save for a pair of greying pants, in the entryway of Sherlock's cottage.The man crouched slightly, trying to protect his dignity, and looked up at Sherlock through dripping eyelashes. "H-hello, I'm John Watson, I'm here about the ad-""Yes, yes, obviously. Here, put this on, I won't have you dying, I wouldn't be able to dispose of your body properly," Sherlock said, and tossed John a blanket.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is really old. Like, early 2013 old. I've been hoarding it. Please forgive the old and bad writing style; I would edit bits but I know it would turn into an entire rewrite and if I embarked on that I'd never get it done. I was tickled to be able to use my farming knowledge in this one. There aren't many ways to combine my career in dairy farming and my love for pregnant gay men.

To John's immense relief, the noise level in the bar didn't waver when he walked through the door, wind gusting and rain flying nearly horizontally in behind him. He closed the door hurriedly and immediately shucked off his coat, shivering slightly as the water that had permeated the cloth and soaked into his shirt began to cool.

A passing waitress gave him a warm smile and gestured to a coat rack where other dripping garments hung, and he smiled back and nodded thankfully as he hoisted his drenched coat and hung it on an empty hook.

Sighing and rubbing his sore shoulder, John looked around to survey the room. It was relatively well-lit, borderline crowded and just noisy enough that he couldn't overhear much conversation. Not quite what he'd been expecting from a run-down pub in a such a remote village in the badlands of Scotland, but it was a pleasant surprise.

He seated himself at the bar and ordered a pint, checking his wallet surreptitiously to see just what all he'd be able to order before he wouldn't have enough to pay for his meal. He thumbed through three measly bills and shook out several pound coins before deciding he'd have to be relatively dry this evening unless he wanted to try and scarper out the loo window like he'd attempted last time. His shoulder twinged and John decided that he'd just as well pay for this particular meal and take care of tomorrow when it came.

John didn't have to look down the menu very far before deciding; a good reliable fish and chips would do just fine. He ordered quickly and beat it to the loo, pulling his sopping flannel shirt off and putting on a warm, dry jumper in its stead. Sure, he looked like an aging schoolteacher in this getup, but he'd suffer the humiliation with a smile if it meant he didn't catch pneumonia.

Back at the bar, John's beer sat happily bubbling in the amber light, and he took a cue from the drink and put a smile on. He was relatively warm, only wet from the waist down, and he was having a pint in a good Scottish pub. Things weren't so bad, if you ignored the past six months.

Things had seemed so bright and exciting the day John left for the RAF. Following in his father's footsteps, serving his country and using his medical license in what must've been the most intense way possible. But just five weeks ago he'd been invalided out with a brand-new hole in his shoulder, and now he was recovering - sort of. Trekking across Scotland wasn't what his therapist had suggested for rehabilitation, but John couldn't stand to rot in a hospital and talk to a shrink all day. He had to _get out,_ and this was what John did best. Stay moving, Watson, and everything will be fine. Stop, and everything stops.

The bartender interrupted John's train of thought by sliding a steaming basket of fish and chips under his nose. John inhaled deeply and sighed. "Thanks, mate," he murmured, and doused his chips in vinegar before popping one into his mouth.

John munched happily on his dinner, idly reading the ads on the newspaper that served as a grease catch. Half of the classifieds seemed to be under his chips, and he uncovered each ad in turn as he ate. "Oi, is this the local paper?" he asked, and the bartender looked at him curiously before nodding.

"Today's issue." The man swiped the countertop with a damp rag and then nodded towards John's mostly empty pint. "Need another?"

"Nah, mate, haven't the cash to cover it." The bartend nodded understandingly and snagged a glass of water for John, setting it down as John tucked back in.

 _Help needed through winter and lambing season. Wiltipolls_ _herd of 150, two cows, chickens. Inquire at Baker Place, Lochinver._

"Hey, sorry to bother. D'you know who this is, at…er, Baker Place? Needs farm help?" John asked, swivelling his basket around and pointing to the slightly greasy ad.

"Cor, I didn't even know anyone lived there anymore," the bartender replied, raising an eyebrow as he read the ad. "It's the old Baker place, I don't know who lives there now. Let me know if you find out," he finished, and slid John's receipt under the basket.

John left the last of his bills on the counter and shrugged back into his still-wet coat, stuffing his soaked shirt into his duffel and steeling himself against the impending weather. Baker Place was just a few miles' walk from the pub, and he'd rather make the journey in the rain and have a warm bed tonight than stiffen up in some motel room and not be able to walk in the morning. He pulled his hood up and opened the door, heading out into the storm.

\---

Sherlock was just about to head off to bed when he saw the light out his sitting room window. Swinging back and forth as it was buffeted in the howling wind, the light grew closer and closer to his house.

And then, unsurprisingly, a knock on the door.

Sherlock pulled himself to his feet and arranged his shirt in a way that minimised the four-month pregnant bump that was growing on his front. The result of an ill-fated coupling the _one night_ that Sherlock, in a drug-induced haze, forgot to insist on a condom, the man hadn't realised he was pregnant until after he'd settled in at his auntie's farm in late September. By that time, he was far enough removed from London and the ability to have an abortion that he would have to suffer through the pregnancy and give the child up for adoption upon its birth; he neither wanted the child nor felt himself capable of caring for it on his own. As much as he loathed the idea, he wouldn't be able to care for the sheep herd by himself, either, though when his auntie had died mere weeks after he moved in she'd left him more than enough inheritance money to pay someone to do the work for him. God knew he'd need assistance; he was having enough trouble walking out to pasture to care for the beasts as it was, and he still had five months left.

Another knock, this time joined by a muffled call. "Anyone there? It's bloody cold out here, it's about the advertisement."

"Male, mid thirties," Sherlock mumbled, and swept across the room to open the door. There stood a short man, dripping wet and chilled to the bone, and _handsome-_

"What did you do, walk the whole way from the village? Get inside, you'll catch your death, are you mad?" Sherlock scoffed, and pulled the man roughly inside and verily slammed the door behind him. He pulled the drenched coat off and tossed it in a pile in the corner, and, ignoring the man's protests divested him of the rest of his clothing until he was standing in a puddle of wet garments, naked save for a pair of greying pants, in the entryway of Sherlock's cottage.

The man crouched slightly, trying to protect his dignity, and looked up at Sherlock through dripping eyelashes. "H-hello, I'm John Watson, I'm here about the ad-"

"Yes, yes, obviously. Here, put this on, I won't have you dying, I wouldn't be able to dispose of your body properly," Sherlock said, and tossed John a blanket before striding back into the sitting room and flopping down on the couch.

\---

John caught the blanket gratefully, wiping off his face and wrapping the warm cloth around his shoulders and following Sherlock into the sitting room. He perched awkwardly on the edge of a well-worn sofa and looked around.

"So…do you need qualifications or…I don't know, an interview, or something?" he asked, his gaze flitting to the man who was simply staring silently.

"You've been recently injured," the tall man said, ignoring the question entirely. "In which branch of the army did you serve? I didn't see any identifying tattoos."

"What? I mean, how…I was in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, but I got a bullet through the shoulder a few months ago - how did you know?"

"That doesn't matter." The man waved a hand distractedly. "Your shoulder - it is healing well, I presume? I doubt a cross-country trip of Scotland was what your GP suggested."

"it's fine," John replied defensively, hand subconsciously grasping his upper arm on his injured side. "Look, I don't know how you know all this, but I'll leave if you're not going to give me the job, it's not that far back to the village-"

"Don't be a nuisance. Of course you've got the job, I'm simply trying to determine your physical and mental state and analyse how long it'll take to train you. I haven't got much time before I'm unable to work the stock." The man tugged at his shirt, and John came to a sudden realisation.

"You're pregnant." The man looked up, slightly shocked, and John's face split with a victorious grin.

"So you're not as dense as I initially thought. Congratulations." The look of shock disappeared as quickly as it had come, and the man once again looked stony-faced. "Well, John Watson, congratulations. You've found yourself employment for the next few months. Make yourself comfortable on the couch, there are spare blankets in the cupboard and we'll figure out rooming tomorrow. Good night." The man rose from the couch, and now John could see the slight bump on his middle. As he was about to disappear from sight, John stood up and called out.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think you said - what is your name?"

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and I'll be in my rooms. See you tomorrow, John." And with that, the man was gone.

\---

"This is Marjorie and this is Agnes. Names were not my choosing," Sherlock said with a sneer, and pointed to the two brown spotted cows standing happily in the cow stable, chewing their cuds. "They have to be fed and milked twice daily."

"Okay," John replied slowly, patting the nearest cow - Agnes? - on the rump. She didn't twitch, instead stood placidly without even looking around. "So…do we do that now?"

"Yes, we do that now. There are two steel pails in the shed 'round the corner, go fetch them." Sherlock dismissed John with another wave of his hand, and turned back to the cows.

John found the pails without much trouble. He walked through the door and stopped short when he saw Sherlock standing, back to him, with a…was that a rod strapped to his arse? John snorted and Sherlock turned around, the rod swinging slightly.

"Milking stool," Sherlock explained, frowning as he tried to tug the leather straps closed across his middle. "It was auntie's, it's much easier than three-legged stools. But it's not fitting very well as of late," he muttered, finally managing to fasten the leather under his small belly. He waved a hand and John gave him one bucket, and Sherlock settled easily down, balancing on the single rod and curved plank and supported by both his legs. "You watch for a few minutes, then you can start milking Marjorie."

Sherlock leaned close to the big beast, murmuring softly and patting her flank for a few seconds and then sliding a hand down her full udder and gently pulling on one teat. "Good girl," he crooned, and slid another hand down so he could work with two teats at once.

The milk made a stinging, metallic sound as it hit the bottom of the pail, rhythmic - sssssrit, ssssrit, sssssrit, sssssrit. "Don't pull, just massage. Make a ring of your thumb and forefinger and slide it down, light pressure. You should be familiar with the motion."

John's cheeks heated as he realised Sherlock's implication, and decided to play along. "I am, and Marjorie should enjoy it."

Sherlock turned his head slightly and John saw a hint of a grin in the dimple of Sherlock's cheek. "Milk letdown is caused by a release of oxytocin in the blood stream, relaxing the sphincter muscle of the teat and allowing milk to flow from the various glands down through the cisterns and out the streak canal. Be soothing, gentle, and confident, and you should be fine. Your stool is over there," Sherlock pointed to what appeared to be a pile of stray lumber. "The T one. It's not as comfortable as mine, but you'll be using this one before long." And with that, the lesson was concluded. Sherlock continued to milk in silence.

John picked up the worn T framed stool, and after a few attempts managed to balance on it and clumsily positioned himself to Marjorie's right. "So there, girl. Go easy on me, okay? It's my first time." John chuckled and fumbled for one long teat, trying not to manhandle it. _Treat it like a cock._ John flushed bright red and coughed. Slowly, he wrapped thumb and forefinger around the teat and made a gentle stroke downwards. A dribble of milk dripped from the teat end, and John tried again, a little harder this time. A streak of milk shot out, but it wasn't at the right angle and it went all over John's pant leg. "Shit!" he cursed quietly, and Marjorie shifted uneasily on her feet. "No, no, ssh, it's fine, good girl." He angled the teat down towards the bucket this time, and as he squeezed he heard a chuckle from behind him. He turned around to see that Sherlock had switched sides, and was now rhythmically emptying Agnes's left quarters into the half-filled pail.

It took John a few minutes to find a good rhythm, and by the time he'd worked it out Sherlock had already finished milking Agnes and set his full pail aside. He settled on Marjorie's other side and joined John in milking the cow, and they sat in companionable silence, the only sounds that of the milk hitting that already in the pail.

"Easy enough," John said softly, and he heard Sherlock's grunt of agreement. "So. You don't seem the farming type. How'd you get into…this?"

Sherlock hummed before beginning to speak. "I was a drug addict. I was given two options: years of rehab, or going to live with my auntie in rural Scotland. I was here just long enough to realise that she was in the last stages of cancer, and she passed just a few weeks after I arrived. I found out I was pregnant just a week after that, and decided to stay here for the time being. No drugs available out here, unlike in London."

"Ah." John continued to milk Marjorie. "And the baby? Do you have a mate, back in London? I can't imagine being away from them for that long, must be hard -"

"No mate. It was a mistake. I'm not keeping it." Sherlock's voice was hard.

John faltered in his rhythm for a moment. "Oh."

"Right. Well, I can see that particular chore having gone much worse. She's done," Sherlock said, and yanked the pail out from beneath the cow and rose to his feet on the other side. John jerked backwards, lost his balance, and ended up sprawled out on the dusty barn floor, dangerously close to Agnes's back feet. Suddenly a hand appeared in his line of vision, and he grasped it and was tugged quickly up and out of range of the cow's black hooves.

"Yeah," John exhaled, and brushed the dirt from his trousers with one hand as he picked up the stool with the other. "Still, could've gone worse."

Sherlock frowned for a moment, hoisted both full milk pails, and trod toward the milk house.

John trotted along behind, holding back a snort as he watched the man walk.

He'd forgotten to take off the stool.

\---

"Milk goes in here to cool. We'll check the chickens and sheep, and come back later to process it. Oh, christ in hell," Sherlock cursed as the rod of the milking stool banged against a pile of empty egg cartons and knocked them over. "Tell me next time," he spat, and set the pails down angrily next to the cooling tank and yanked the leather straps off.

"Sorry, sorry," John apologised, but Sherlock just growled and reached around him to toss the contraption out the open door. "Wasn't sure if you needed it for this or not."

"Pour the milk in, don't spill it. I'll stack these back up." Sherlock ignored the apology and bent to pick up the egg cartons. John hoisted the first pail up and poured it carefully into the cooler. The pail was warm, and John was surprised. It made sense, of course, that it was warm, having come from inside a cow and all, but all the same it was strange.

"So, er, what are we going to do with this milk?" John asked, pouring in the second pail.

"Tomorrow, we'll make butter. We have a calf to feed, however, draw out enough to fill this bottle." Sherlock handed John a white bottle and pointed to the spout, and then rose as he stacked the last of the cartons up again. John filled the bottle with milk and handed it to Sherlock, who snapped on a rubber nipple and led the way out of the milk house again.

Around back behind the calf stable was a small, dark red calf, who bellowed eagerly when it saw Sherlock coming with his bottle. Sherlock easily slid the nipple into the calf's mouth, and it drank in earnest. "Whose calf is it?" John asked.

"Agnes's. She just freshened last month. It's a bull, so we'll have to castrate him sometime soon."

John blanched. "And, er, how is that done?"

"Banding, John, not surgery. No need to fear for your genitals." John let out a breath, chuckling.

"Here, he's done."

"Christ, that was quick."

"Benefits of an oesophoageal groove. Take that and go rinse it out. The chickens are out behind the house, I'll meet you there and then we'll look at the sheep."

The chickens were squawking when John came round the corner, and he could see Sherlock standing in the center of the small flock and tossing kernels of corn out onto the ground. "These are simple to care for; I'll do them for awhile longer. Just throwing feed at them once a day suffices. Come here, I'll show you how to gather eggs."

"These eggs are unfertilised, the hens aren't in season yet. Early spring, we'll turn the cockerel out and let him have his way with the hens, and they'll start to nest. We'll raise them and butcher them, and then freeze most to use throughout the year. Reach under the nesting hens - carefully, they do bite - and draw out the eggs. Slowly and easily, just like that. Don't push the hen out of the way. She won't take kindly to it. There. Try that one, she's usually fine." Sherlock deposited his eggs in the basket on his arm, and pointed to a sleepy-looking hen in the next cubby over.

John moved warily to stand in front of the hen, and slid his hand under her, trying to be as unobtrusive as Sherlock had been. He thought he'd succeeded until a sharp bite to his arm made him yelp and withdraw quickly, holding his thumb over the spot of blood that had risen to the surface. "What did I do wrong?"

"Nothing. I lied. That was a test. She's the worst; if you had managed to get her eggs from under her without her biting you I would've let you do the rest yourself. Settle down, hen, I swear I've no idea why I keep you around." Sherlock slid his arm under, looking in the hen's eyes warningly, and withdrew two smooth white eggs.

"Go on, anyone who's sitting has eggs underneath her. Pick them up." John managed to finish the chore, Sherlock watching him intently, and only got nipped once more. When they finished, the basket had nearly two dozen eggs, and they were all different sizes - very unlike the ones John bought in the ASDA.

"And these go…where?" John inquired as Sherlock led the way out of the dark henhouse. He closed the door behind them and followed Sherlock's example, kicking off the manure and mud from his boots and leaving his loaned wellies outside the back door.

"Some go to Victor, others mixed in the cow feed, some are used for cooking and I just toss out the rest. I've too many hens at the moment."

"Er…Victor? Elderly neighbor?"

"Dog. You'll meet him when we go out to care for the sheep. For now, lunch." Sherlock set the basket on the worktop and put five eggs in the refrigerator, leaving the rest sitting out.

"Lunch? It can't be-" Sherlock pointed to the clock on the wall, and John frowned. "It's only 10 a.m, Sherlock, why are we eating lunch now?"

"Because it's a two hour walk out to where the sheep are, and I don't want to do it on an empty stomach, do you?"

"Two hours? Jesus, don't you have a…I don't know, an ATV or something?"

"John, check the rain gauge." Sherlock gestured to the doorframe and pulled a loaf of bread and cold cuts from the refrigerator. John rose with a huff and walked over to the door. Was this what it was going to be like, with conversations ending just because Sherlock didn't want to talk anymore?

"Two and a half inches." John read the gauge and shut the door again. "Is that- ohh."

"The ATV's in the barn, John, have fun getting it stuck in mud up to your ankles. We're walking out today."

"Right." Sherlock knew what he was doing. John shut up and ate his sandwich.

\---

The walk was slow going, in mud which was truly up to John's ankles. His wellies made slick sucking noises each time he slogged through a wet patch, and eventually decided to walk behind Sherlock instead of abreast him. It was obvious the man knew where to step, which patches would stay driest and hold their weight up. John was glad for a reprieve when Sherlock stopped partway up a rocky slope and picked a flat rock to perch on, but when he looked over he saw that the man was pasty white and breathing heavily.

"Sherlock? You okay?" John sat down next to him and nearly set a hand on his back, but pulled it away at the last moment when he realised what he was about to do. Sherlock nodded and took a deep breath, and one hand drifted up to settle on his rounding stomach.

"Overexertion. I didn't…eat enough, for lunch. Brought more sandwiches, they're in the satchel. Get…get one for me, please?" Sherlock exhaled, his eyes closed tightly and still breathing hard.

"Yeah, sure, no problem." John pulled the satchel from Sherlock's back gently, and rooted around in its depths until he came up with a slightly warm cheese sandwich. "Here. Eat slowly, I don't want you getting sick up here."

Sherlock made a 'mmph' noise and took the sandwich, biting into it and chewing while making a face as though the sandwich had done something to offend him. Gradually, as he ate, his skin color seemed to improve, though his hand still rested and occasionally rubbed his stomach.

"Alright, then?"

"Another sandwich. Have one for yourself, I packed plenty." Sherlock took the second sandwich John handed him and ate it slowly this time, instead of scarfing it down. John took a sandwich for himself and ate, thankful that Sherlock had packed plenty. A sandwich and crisps just wasn't enough for lunch, not for all this walking.

"Mmf, I'm done. Thank you. Are you ready to go?" Sherlock asked, tossing the remainder of his sandwich aside and standing up with a grunt. He brushed the crumbs from his shirt, hand jerking away when it brushed against his stomach. John took one last bite of his own sandwich and then stood himself, re-zipping Sherlock's satchel and slinging it over his own shoulder, ignoring Sherlock's protests.

"Let's go, then. Lead on, Macduff." John gestured openly towards the craggy hillside, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped in front of John, starting once more up the hill.

Nearly half an hour passed in which neither man spoke or made any real noise other than breathing. They could see sheep along the hillside, but they were at least another forty-five minutes' walk away. Suddenly, John remembered something Sherlock had said earlier. "Where's Victor?"

"Oh, he's been following us since we left. Victor!" Sherlock called, and suddenly a smallish, black and white border collie wiggled out of the weeds to Sherlock's right and trotted alongside them. "This is Victor. He was auntie's dog, but he's taken well to me. In a few miles, he'll go ahead of us and herd the sheep this way, onto ground we can safely walk." The dog yipped and ran off to the side again, tail wagging.

"Useful bugger, then," John remarked, and lost sight of the dog once more as he went into taller and taller weeds. A simple 'mm' was all the response he got.

They walked another mile in silence, weeds rustling in the gentle wind. As they crested the hill, the landscape suddenly opened and spread out in front of John and Sherlock, miles and miles of dull green grasses and bright purple flowers, brown foliage and deep green trees. The clouds overhead cast slowly-moving shadows across the valley, and sheep dotted the hillsides in small packs.

"Wow," John exhaled, and paused.

Sherlock, too, stopped, hands on his hips and surveying the land. "I never tire of this view."

"I can see why." John spent a few minutes just looking around, watching how the waves of grass changed colour as the wind blew through them, how the landscape seemed to melt with the passing clouds.

Sherlock broke the silence. "Come on, then. Victor's gone ahead, it's not long now." He put his hands back in his pockets and trudged down the slope.

John, in what he thought might be a developing pattern, followed.

\---

"The first thing you should know is that sheep are not friendly. You will be hard pressed to 'pet' one," Sherlock explained, and in demonstration took a step towards a near-standing pack of sheep. One let out a bleat and the small pack scattered, disappearing into the large flock. "It is best to do a cursory look first, for overall body condition - you'll see that these are well fed, not too thin or too fat. In a months' time, the grasses will stop providing enough nutrients, and we - well, you and Victor - will herd them in closer so they can be supplemented with grain. Any questions?"

"Er…yeah. Shearing?" John inquired, looking at the fluffy animals.

"No. These are Wiltipolls sheep, they shed naturally. Meat breeds. In the spring, after lambing, they'll be sold and fed out, then butchered for meat."

"So, er, what do you do with the wool, then? Collect it?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh god, no. Wool's worthless. You're the first person I've seen in years wearing a wool jumper." John looked down at his jumper and was about to defend himself when Sherlock continued. "No, the birds will pick it up and use it in nests, or it will gradually decompose. What farmers used to get pounds for is now costing them to produce. Wool's gone out of style," he finished, and then looked at John's jumper once more. "Obviously."

"Hey!" John barked, but Sherlock was already gone, marching in amongst the sheep and sending them running in every direction. Victor was nipping at heels and keeping the sheep in the right area, and after a few minutes of looking around he nodded, apparently satisfied, and turned to walk back to John.

"Right, that's good. Any questions?" He asked, brushing his hands on his trousers.

John blinked. "Ah, what exactly were you looking for?"

"Condition, weight. Faeces on tails, indicative of worms. Bald patches, indicative of lice causing premature shedding. Everything seems in order. Ready to go back?"

"Erm, yeah, I suppose so." John said tentatively, feeling entirely clueless. He was expected to be able to look at these sheep and tell all of that, just from walking through the flock?

"Don't fret about the sheep, John. That's the first time I've checked them in three weeks. They're low maintenance, the least of your worries." Sherlock started back up the hill, snapping his fingers. John was about to protest being treated like a dog when the _actual_ dog came bounding up beside Sherlock.

"That's a good boy, Victor," John heard Sherlock murmur, and shook his head. This man was an enigma if he'd ever met one.

\---

This man was an enigma if he'd ever met one. A quick learner, eager to please, uncomplaining and untiringly helpful. Something of a rough past, apparently, blatantly readable at times and unflappably impossible to read at others.

The man following him was a wounded army veteran who, instead of retiring on disability after his injury, had uprooted himself and travelled across Scotland and for god-knows-what reason had found Sherlock's advertisement and decided that it was a fitting job. Sherlock picked up his pace and John followed unfailingy, his breathing never quickening and his pace never faltering even over rough, uncertain terrain.

The more they walked, in what Sherlock was sure would be described as a 'companionable silence', the more Sherlock questioned the man's motives. Could it really be that simple, that he was just a passing traveller who had seen an ad for farm work and decided it would be an okay job? Utter nonsense.

Sherlock hadn't been expecting John, or anything or anyone remotely like John; he'd expected some pathetic teenager who he could pay half the going wages to sleep in the barn and care for the livestock. But no, he'd gotten John. Strong, able-bodied, eager John. Friendly, amiable, _handsome_ John…

Sherlock shook his head and kept walking, Victor easily keeping pace at his side. What had he gotten himself into, placing that ad?

\---

"You're an Alpha."

John nodded, entirely serious. "Clearly. And you're an Omega."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Clearly. What are you doing here?"

John leaned his chair so it was resting on its back two legs. "Farm chores, from my understanding. Unless your advertisement was a coded message for, I don't know, used piano wire or something."

Sherlock didn't laugh. "Why did you respond to my ad?"

"Because I barely had enough cash to pay for my meal at the bar, and saw an ad for a farm worker, and figured I could do the job."

"Is that so."

"Yes, that's so! What are you expecting, for me to break down and reveal some awful plot for your demise? That I'm supposed to sic your sheep on you, or unpack some deathly bacterium to toss in your milk supply and then dispose of your body afterwards?" Sherlock didn't look up from chopping his carrots. "Christ, Sherlock, what kind of life do you lead if that's a thought you'd even remotely entertain?"

"One can never be too wary." Chop, chop, chop. "Don't take offence, John. I'm merely being cautious. You weren't what I was expecting when I placed the ad." At John's look of confusion, Sherlock elaborated. "I was nearly certain that some local half-arsed teenager would show up and do the bare minimum to get by, and demand breaks and recompense for work he didn't do. Forgive me if I'm a cynic. I simply never choose to believe that everyone is what they seem on first glance." Chop, chop, chop. "Would you like scallions in your soup?"

\---

John settled down onto his cot, leaning back against the wooden wall and scrubbing his face with his hands. He was exhausted, entirely drained from the days' work.

After dinner, Sherlock had disappeared out to the barn, and by the time John realised he had gone out to do chores he'd already nearly finished milking Agnes. John grabbed his stool and started to milk Marjorie, and though Sherlock finished first he didn't sit down to help. When John looked up, Sherlock was nowhere to be found, his stool had been unstrapped and left hanging on a hook in the cow stable. John finished milking Marjorie and toted the bucket out to the milk house, where he saw the bottle was missing and decided that Sherlock must be out feeding the calf.

John poured the milk into the cooler, rinsed the bucket, and dashed out to where the bull's pen was. Sherlock was just tipping the bottle to make sure the calf got the last of his milk when John arrived, and the man simply handed off the bottle and walked back to the house to feed the chickens - the last of the evening chores, as far as John knew. After that…

"Hey Sherlock, where am I sleeping? The couch again?" Sherlock stopped and turned around, silhouetted a little by the setting sun.

"I have a box stall prepared in the barn. There's electricity, a space heater, a bed and spare blankets. You would've slept there last night, but for the lateness of the hour at which you arrived and the inclement weather." Sherlock paused, looking John up and down. "Is that okay?"

John nodded. "Fine. Mind if I shower first?"

Sherlock shook his head. "The house and its facilities are yours to use whenever you need. When winter comes, we shall see if it becomes too cold to sleep in the box stall, and find alternate housing arrangements from there."

And that had been the end of the conversation. Sherlock had fed the chickens, John had showered and changed into pyjamas, and both men went their separate ways for the evening. And now John sat on his bed in the box stall, thoughts spinning in his head.

Was this what he'd expected, when he showed up at Sherlock's door? No, definitely not.

But…was it bad?

No, definitely not.

John laid down, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.

\---

Three weeks later, the two men had established a rhythm. John awoke with the sunrise each morning, milked Agnes and Marjorie, and met Sherlock in the milkhouse. Sherlock had wordlessly handed John his harnessed stool a week after John had arrived, after trying and failing to buckle the straps around his middle. John had done chores on his own that day, and hadn't seen Sherlock until noon.

The calf, whom John had named Gladstone, was growing quickly, and at lunch one day John interrupted the silence to ask if Sherlock was going to halter train the young bull. Sherlock had looked at John quizzically and told him he'd had no plans of doing any such thing, but John found an old worn rope halter looped around the fence pole the next morning. He began by slipping the halter on the young calf while he ate, letting him get used to the feeling, and then tying him up for a few minutes a day to get used to the rope. Sherlock scoffed when he saw John crooning to the calf, and said that simply tying him up for a day would break him far easier, and that he was coddling the bull. John snapped back that if Sherlock wasn't the one training the bull, he could back off and let John do whatever the hell he wanted. Sherlock had blinked and stalked off, and as he walked away John had slid down and sat in the straw next to the calf.

John sat in the straw for a few minutes, wondering why he'd gotten so angry at Sherlock for a simple suggestion. He felt horrifically guilty. Gladstone grunted next to his ear, interrupting his thoughts, and licked John across the face. John had laughed and pushed him away. "None of that, you great bloody brute."

John had apologised at lunch, but Sherlock didn't respond. The man seemed more distant than usual, which was really saying something. He spent the entirety of dinner with one hand on his growing stomach, and left the dishes on the table when he was finished, retreating to his room without a word of acknowledgement to John.

\---

The baby was moving.

Sherlock had tried to ignore it, when it was just small flutters in his belly, but he couldn't deny it now. The baby had quickened, was growing, was stretching him out from the inside and sometimes it turned slow circles in his belly.

He stood in the shower, water pounding down over his back, and held his stomach with both hands as the baby moved. "I don't want you," he whispered. "Stop moving, for christ's sake, stop moving." He nearly broke down and cried when the foetus kicked him.

He didn't want to be pregnant, he didn't want to have to depend on someone else to care for him or his household or his livestock but he was getting too big, his belly stretching his clothes and making his back ache. This baby that had taken up residence in his belly was eating up his energy, and his body cried out for an Alpha to care for him, but he didn't have an Alpha, besides John, but he didn't count. It didn't matter that Sherlock felt more at ease when he was around, that John's smiles made his heart flutter. Didn't matter that John's smell could calm him down, that his nerves were soothed by the man's gentle voice...

Oh, god.

Sherlock fell to his knees, drawing in deep, shaking breaths. The baby in his belly shifted anxiously as his blood pressure rose, as his self control decayed and he started to sob under the pounding shower.

He couldn't do this, couldn't do it on his own. His body needed an Alpha, and the Alpha it had chosen was sleeping out in the barn, entirely unaware of Sherlock's need.

The gears clicked into place in Sherlock's head, and his heart stopped pounding and his breathing evened and he climbed shakily to his feet. The baby stopped wriggling and Sherlock rubbed his distended middle for a few moments, residual nerves still making his arms tremble and his knees weak.

He'd find some way to rationalise his feelings. His body's hormonal nature, his mind's unwitting choice. And when he did, John would understand.

He had to.

\---

Soon, Gladstone was standing easily when tied, and followed John eagerly around the pen when the ex-soldier led him around the edge. He bounded and bellowed excitedly when John led him out of the pen for the first time, and nearly pulled John off his feet when Victor had barked and startled him. John managed to pull him to a stop and calm him down, but decided next time, Victor would be tied up before he took Gladstone for a walk.

It became part of John's daily routine to take Gladstone out every day after his feeding, but one day Sherlock met him at the pen with an electric cord and some sort of handheld machine. "Sherlock?" John asked, but Sherlock simply told him to halter the calf and restrain him.

"Dehorning, John. If we let them go for much longer, they'll have to be surgically removed."

"But…he's tame, Sherlock. He won't hurt anyone."

Sherlock looked up at John as he bent to plug in the dehorner. "Cattle are _animals,_ John. He knows how to use his horns, even just as tools. I don't want to see you gored to death."

"But - he wouldn't-"

"I'm not going to risk your life over something this inane. Straddle him, and hold him as still as you can. This is going to hurt."

With tears of indignant fury rising behind his eyes, John swung one leg over the calf's neck and pinned him in place. He petted the calf and tried to soothe his pained noises when the hot burner touched his head, burning a copper ring in his white hair as the machine killed the horn bud. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," John murmured, stroking the fighting calf's neck as Sherlock grimaced and switched sides. "It's for your own good, Gladstone, it's okay."

The smell of burning flesh and the sound of Gladstone's agonised bellows followed him around all day.

The calf recovered quicker than John thought he would. He bounded to the front of the pen the next morning, the only sign of his trauma in the singed hairs and browned scabs on his head. Within a week, the scabs had fallen off, and by the time Gladstone reached three months of age, the scars had healed over and no sign that the bull had ever had horns could be found.

\---

Gladstone got a rather rude gift for his three-month birthday: A tight rubber band.

"Did you see the look on the poor bugger's face when you snapped the band on?" John crowed, nearly doubling over remembering the wide-eyed look of shock that had passed across Gladstone's face when the band snapped tight around his testicles.

"He did seem rather appalled," Sherlock replied, smiling as well - but more at John's expression than at the bull's reaction. "He'll get over it soon. It won't take long for the band to take effect."

John kicked the mud off his wellies and slipped them off, setting them on the porch beside Sherlock's. "Oh, I'm sure. I can't imagine, though. Poor bloke. He doesn't even get anything good out of the deal."

"Sure he does. No risk of an unwanted pregnancy," Sherlock said flatly, and John stopped dead in his tracks.

"Sherlock, are you-"

"I'm fine, John. The baby's apparently healthy, if the amount of moving around it does is any indicator."

"Cor, it's moving?" John asked, and looked at Sherlock's rounded belly incredulously. "I didn't realise you were that far along, really, I mean I see you every day-"

"Twenty two weeks, five days," Sherlock said curtly, and bent to open the refrigerator. "Is yesterday's soup fine for lunch?"

"Sure, sure," John said, and shucked off his coat to sit down at the table. "If it moves during lunch, would you…I mean, could I feel it? From outside?"

"What interest would you have in feeling the foetus move?" Sherlock asked, looking over his shoulder incredulously as he set the soup pot on the stove. When he turned, John looked - really looked, for the first time in months - at Sherlock's burgeoning belly. It was full and heavy under his shirt, and John was honestly surprised at how much he'd grown when John wasn't really looking.

"I mean, I live with you after all, and it's your baby, and I'm your friend. I suppose…" John trailed off and cleared his throat. "I…if you don't want me to feel it, that's fine. I just figured I'd ask."

Sherlock stirred the soup, silent and deep in thought. "Come here, John," he said finally, quietly.

John rose from his chair and walked to where Sherlock was standing at the stove. "I'm not sure if you can feel it yet, but it's moving right now. Give me your hands." John held them out, and Sherlock's eyes flickered upwards for a moment before he pressed them to his stomach.

John smiled and held his hands in place, waiting anxiously to see if he could feel the baby move. Sherlock frowned and shifted his hands a little, and then - "Oh. Oh, wow."

Sherlock's baby was moving under John's spread palms, rolling gently beneath the skin. John pressed his hands a little firmer, trying to feel more, but Sherlock made sort of a strangled noise in his throat and twisted away. John looked on in confusion as Sherlock pressed a hand to his belly and clutched the worktop beside the sink. The man was breathing heavily, with his eyes squeezed closed. It looked a lot like the time Sherlock had overexerted himself on their walk - but they'd only been walking, it wouldn't have been overexertion, it had to be something else…

"Sherlock, are you okay? What's wrong?" John rushed to Sherlock's side and put a comforting hand on his back, rubbing in small circles. Sherlock jerked but didn't move away.

"Hormones," Sherlock finally managed to whisper, and it sounded agonized.

"Oh." John swallowed in realisation. "Ohhhhh. Sherlock, if…if you need…"

"My body is telling me that you're my Alpha, even though we're not bonded, even though you're not the father of the child. But when…when you…when you're around, it's, I'm satisfied. John, I…" Sherlock broke off with a choked sob.

"Ssh, ssh, it's okay, Sherlock. I've got you, I'm right here." John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and the Omega nearly fell in his embrace. "Hey, I've got you. If this is what you need, I can give this to you." John held him close, and though the Omega was taller than John he was smaller in this moment. John could hold him, could keep him close for a few minutes.

Sherlock's pulse was beating wildly beneath his chest, but as he held on, John could feel it start to steady. When it felt like Sherlock was steadier, John led him carefully to the couch.

Sherlock protested, but John sat him down, and now that their heights were evened out Sherlock could lean heavily on John's shoulder to recover. John held him close, wrapping his arms around the man's shaking body - one around his shoulders, the other around his thickening waist. Sherlock's breathing was heavy and uneven, but it gradually shallowed until his breathing matched John's inhale for inhale. "Better now?" John asked quietly, rocking Sherlock gently back and forth.

Sherlock nodded and a wet sniffle escaped his nose. His arm rose to swipe at the offending mucus and John chuckled, earning a wan smile from Sherlock in return.

"You're very warm. A more effective heater than the one in the stall, anyway," John commented, but Sherlock stiffened in his arms and John drew back.

"I hadn't realised it was so cold," Sherlock said quietly, and shook out of John's arms, pushing himself away and wrapping his own arms around his stomach. "My apologies."

"No, no, I'm fine, Sherlock, really. It was a joke, mostly. No worries." John felt empty now, but it didn't surprise him as much as he thought it probably should. He'd been growing to know this man for nearly three months, and spending all this time around an unbonded Omega - it was almost surprising that he hadn't acted on his instincts sooner. Army training, he supposed, and shrugged off the residual feeling of emptiness and focused on Sherlock, who was looking phenomenally uncomfortable on the other end of the sofa.

"Hey, it's okay," he started, but Sherlock cut him off with an angry huff.

"No, it's not. Nothing's okay. I'm-" He broke off with a grunt as he pushed himself to his feet and stalked over to the counter, gripping the worktop with both hands. "I'm pregnant, my body's trying to bond with an Alpha who isn't interested, and-"

It was John's turn to cut Sherlock off, this time. "Hey, who said I wasn't interested?" he asked, rising to his own feet.

Sherlock turned with a frankly pissed off expression on his face, glaring at John. "Now is not the time for jokes, John."

"I'm not joking." John took a few steps forward and held his hands out to his sides. "I think you're a right bastard at times, yes, and more than a little mad, but that doesn't mean I don't like you."

"There is," Sherlock said slowly, deliberately, "a difference between friendship and love."

"I know," John replied, equally as deliberately. "I'm well aware, Sherlock."

Sherlock exhaled shakily, staring atJohn, and blinked. "I need a moment." And without waiting for John's reply, Sherlock strode out the back door and collapsed onto a step.

The crisp, overcold air singed the hairs inside his nostrils and brought a startling clarify to the events that had just taken place. Sherlock closed his eyes and thought.

Fact: His body was attempting to bond with an Alpha, a man he'd known for several months and who he had developed a close friendship with.

Fact: Omega pregnancies had a higher rate of success with a Bonded Alpha present.

Fact: Though Sherlock didn't care for the child's well-being after its birth, he loathed the idea of going through pregnancy and labour to bring a dead baby into the world.

Conclusion: Bonding with John was the best option.

Fact: John had admitted, quite plainly and without coercion, that he loved Sherlock.

Fact: Love was the best way to create a successful bond.

Fact: Sherlock…was in love with John.

Conclusion: Bonding with John was possible.

Fact: John was inside, probably thinking that he'd just lost his job.

Fact: It was bloody cold outside.

Conclusion: Sherlock needed to go back inside and talk with John.

Sherlock pulled himself up once more and laid a tentative hand on his belly, steadying himself. "Nearly six months gone is too far gone for this nonsense," he muttered, and opened the door to go back into the house.

He returned to the kitchen, feeling John's eyes on him every step of the way, and returned to stirring the soup. Sherlock turned to face John and leaned back against the countertop. "I believe we need to talk about bonding."

\----------

Their spoons scraped the bottoms of their bowls before Sherlock spoke. "Omega pregnancies have a higher success rate with a Bonded Alpha," he started.

John nodded in agreement. "Yep."

"Even though I don't want the baby, I don't want it to be dead."

"Why don't you want the baby?" John interjected, and Sherlock looked up.

"I am an unbonded Omega with habits that are less than satisfactory. I highly doubt I'm qualified-"

"After we bond, you won't have your first excuse, and it's not like there are drug dealers in the rural north of Scotland to supply you."

"I have my ways-"

"And you haven't used them yet, which tells me two things - you don't really want to, and you don't want to hurt your baby, regardless of whether you want it or not. I've always wanted kids," John continued. "I would want to keep it, if we bonded."

Sherlock blinked. "Fine. Up for discussion. But the bonding-"

"Is obviously the rational decision. You'll get what your body wants, I'll get what _my_ body wants-" Sherlock coughed on his soup and looked up, surprised, but John simply shrugged. "We're friends, maybe more than, by now. I don't see any reason to argue."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You've no objections to bonding for life with an Omega who has a history of drug abuse, is pregnant with a stranger's child, and doesn't take social cues?"

John quirked an eyebrow and shrugged again. "I said I didn't see any reason to argue, didn't I? It doesn't bother me as much as you seem to want it to, Sherlock. Are you sure you're not the one creating the problems here?"

"I'm not creating problems!" Sherlock protested, shoving his bowl away and sloshing soup over the side. "I'm simply trying to work through possible issues before we enter a relationsh-"

John cut him off with what was possibly the most effective method he'd used yet - standing up, taking Sherlock's face in his hands, and kissing him fiercely.

Just a few seconds passed wherein Sherlock's lips were in contact with John's, pressed firm and warm against each other. Sherlock expected to argue when John released the pressure, but instead, he looked the pleased Alpha in the eye and growled, "Do it again."

"Fine by me," John responded, and pushed his chair back, strode around the table and pressed his lips to Sherlock's again. Sherlock made a pleased sort of noise and gripped John's jumper in his hands, tugging at the material.

"You taste amazing, god," John murmured when he stopped for air, and then pushed his lips to John's so harshly that Sherlock's opened in response and their teeth clacked together.

"Sentiment, John, you've not tasted me yet-"

"Shut up, I'm getting there."

Their kisses grew more and more intense, and at some point Sherlock found himself being tugged to his feet. He had to bend over now to kiss John, but it didn't really bother either of them. Their dinner sat forgotten on the table as their kisses and embraces became more heated, bodies pressing closer together and heating up until they were both sweating and saturating the air with pheromones.

"Need to be in you," John growled at the same time Sherlock gasped "Need you in me," and they both managed to pause long enough to stumble to Sherlock's small bedroom and strip naked on the bed.

"Fucking- fuck me, John," Sherlock panted as he fell back against the mattress, spreading his legs and exposing himself to John.

"I'm going to, Sherlock, I'm going to take you and you'll be mine, god-"

"Yours," Sherlock sighed, and his breathing quickened, his belly and chest heaving as he panted, writhing under John's gaze. The Alpha grinned and sank two fingers into Sherlock's entrance, and Sherlock yelped and tightened on John's digits. "Don't waste time, just fuck me," he growled.

"Don't wanna hurt you," John replied, scissoring Sherlock open until he thought he was ready enough and then pulling his fingers out and slinging Sherlock's leg around his waist. Sherlock groaned needily when he felt John's cock brush between his arsecheeks, hard and hot and slick.

"Gonna take you, gonna fuck you, gonna bond and make a ba-" John cut himself off, stopping just before he realised his error, and shook his head. "Gonna make you mine." He positioned himself at Sherlock's entrance, breached the man's hole, and sank in deep.

The pace was harsh and rough, neither of them mindful of the baby in Sherlock's belly beyond the haziest awareness of its presence. This was bonding sex, both parties drowning in pheromones and brains screaming to fertilize, to conceive, regardless of the foetus already growing in Sherlock's womb. The sharp slap of flesh on flesh and their breaths sawing in and out of their lungs were the only noises to be heard, both of them working furiously to pleasure each other.

"Bite me. Bond me," Sherlock begged, crying out each time John slammed inside his body, pushed his pelvis as firmly against Sherlock's body as he could. His fingers raked insistent paths up John's back and gripped his rear, squeezing it between his fingers in an attempt to pull John closer, deeper. "Do it, bite me, bond-"

"Oh, shut up, I'm doing it," John rolled his eyes and bent over, opening his mouth wide and taking Sherlock's shoulder between his teeth and biting down. Sherlock's body went rigid and then limp beneath him, and John felt warm spurts of come coat his stomach. The taste of blood hit his tongue and he bit deeper still, making sure their bondmark was deep and permanent. Sherlock was _his_ , irrevocably now. John released the man's shoulder and lapped at the saliva and leaking blood, pumping only a few more times before he came hard and deep inside his mate's body.

It took a few moments for John to come down and realise that he hadn't knotted. Sherlock, panting beneath him, gave a somewhat disappointed huff as he apparently came to the same realization, and John couldn't help but laugh as he pulled out and sank down next to Sherlock.

"I was so hoping you'd knot me," Sherlock griped, and John swatted him on the arm.

"You're not in heat, berk," John replied, and Sherlock blinked and then glared. "It's not my fault! You're the pregnant one." Sherlock glared down at his stomach. "It's not his fault, either. Well, inadvertently. But not really. That one's mostly you."

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms. "What makes you so sure it's a him?" He inquired, looking haughty.

"Oh!" John looked bemused. "I don't know. Nothing, really. I guess I just didn't want to call it an it."

"I see." Sherlock sighed. "Well, we shan't find out until it's born. There's not an obstetrician within a hundred and fifty miles of here."

"Have you had any checkups yet?" John asked, and shifted on the sheets to get a better look at Sherlock.

"No. I know I am pregnant, and I can only assume that it is with a human child, rather than a changeling or…a sheep, or something."

"Do you make a habit of fucking sheep?" Sherlock looked affronted and John guffawed. "I didn't think so, but just thought I ought to ask. Potential mates should know the worst about each other, after all."

Sherlock looked at John quizzically. "Indeed."

"What's that look for?" John quirked a brow.

"I just can't quite…suss you out. It's infuriating." Sherlock looked vaguely frustrated, which made John even more confused.

"What do you mean by that?"

Sherlock sighed. "I can tell things about people. It's how I knew about your wound, your cross-country healing expedition, that you were a doctor. But I can usually tell more than that. Whether they're hiding something, or honest, or somewhere in between. I can't tell that about you, and it's worrying. I have to…trust you," Sherlock said, spitting out the word 'trust' as though it were poison. "I've never trusted anyone before. Trust leaves you vulnerable."

John looked at Sherlock quizzically. "Well," he said slowly, "I don't make a habit of lying, and I've been told I'm a pretty obvious liar, so I guess if you can't tell I'm lying you can assume that I'm telling the truth. Sorry to be an anomaly."

Sherlock stared for a moment longer, then shifted to lay on his back. "Don't apologise," he murmured at last. "I like it."

\------

That night marked the last night that John spent in the box stall. While he was out tending to the sheep with Victor, Sherlock moved all his things back inside, and although it worried John to have his…mate…doing manual labour while he was pregnant, he was inwardly overjoyed that Sherlock had cared enough to do something so sentimental.

Not much changed in the way of chores; John continued to do everything but feed the chickens and collect eggs. They woke up together in the mornings, Sherlock did the loathesome household chores while John worked outside, and they ate their meals together. John caught him with his hand on his belly every now and then, cradling the swell. On occasion, Sherlock would pull John's hand down to feel, tentatively pressing it against an elbow or knee. John loved those moments, when Sherlock felt open enough to let John feel his baby as it grew.

And even though that's what it was - Sherlock's baby, not John's, John was starting to love it anyhow. It was half his bondmate, and regardless of parentage, he'd be the baby's other father. He loved being able to touch Sherlock, not only to feel as the baby kicked but whenever he felt like it. Because Sherlock was his, now, and he himself belonged to Sherlock in turn.

Just a week before Christmas, John inquired about supplies. They weren't running terrifically low, but it would be nice to have some food to spare in case some wicked Scottish weather cropped up and shut them in for weeks. It wasn't out of the question, he thought, peering out onto the moors. They were well and truly remote.

That thought scared John too; what would happen if Sherlock's labour didn't go smoothly? If the baby was breech, or if he needed a caesarean? In a pinch, John could do the work, but he would need to get to a hospital as soon as possible afterwards, to make sure everything was okay. But for now, it was nearly Christmastime, and they had a few more months to go before any of the risks became reality.

Interrupting John's thoughtful silence, Sherlock tossed a pair of keys at his mate. "Under the sheet, in the shed beside Gladstone's stall. Take the car to town. Fuel it up while you're there. Money in the glovebox."

John chuckled and gave Sherlock a peck on the cheek before he left the house, promising to be back before dark. He patted Gladstone on his head - "you big brute, you're growing like a bloody weed." - on his way to the dust-covered sheet in the shed. He pulled it off and gaped.

Sherlock looked up, confused, when John burst through the door. "Thought you were going to town?"

John brandished his keys and glowered. "When you said take the car, you didn't say 'take my fucking Beamer."

\-----

Navigating the driveway in Sherlock's sports car proved to be something of a trick, but at least the mud had frozen in peaks that could be used as grips on the way back up. Once John reached the road, however, it was only a few minutes' drive to the town he hadn't seen since he first stopped in the pub. It looked distinctly different in the dusting of snow, sunlight glimmering off the frost-covered windowpanes.

John pulled up in front of the grocery, and the car honked obnoxiously when he clicked the button to lock. He picked up what would certainly be more supplies than they would need, but John simply couldn't resist bringing home a few jars of home-canned fruit preserves and some Christmastime teas. He made small talk with the cashier, a pleasant older woman whose name tag read 'Emma'.

"So, Emma," John said, leaning onto the countertop with a conspiratorial look on my face, "Anywhere around here where someone could buy a Christmas gift for their mate?"

The woman looked up at him, almost affronted, until she realised that John had read her name tag. "Now, young man, the name tag may say 'Emma' but it's Mrs Hudson to you."

John blinked and rose back up. "Oh. Erm, sorry, Mrs Hudson, I didn't know."

She chuckled and laid a frail hand on John's arm. "Of course you wouldn't know, love. Now, something about a gift for your mate, you say? Well, I do a little bit of knitting on the side, but in the case you don't want lumpy jumpers or holey blankets, I'd suggest the little shop just outside of town…" 

\-----

John left his gift for Sherlock inside the _fucking_ Beamer when he got home, and toted his load of groceries into the house. "I'd call that a success," he beamed, setting his haul out on the countertop and starting to unpack. Sherlock went to push himself to his feet, but John shot him a glower and Sherlock sank back into the chair. "Picked up some chocolates for you," he continued, and tossed them onto the couch next to his mate. He made short work of putting away all the groceries, and then flopped down on the couch next to Sherlock.

"And how did you fare, while your strong Alpha was gone?" he crooned, and yelped when Sherlock reached over and pinched his arm.

"I fared fine. Brushed up on late eighteenth century murder methods. Tried not to go into a romantic swoon at the thought of you. Nearly succeeded." It was John's turn to pinch Sherlock, and in retaliation the Omega scooted further away on the couch.

"And baby?" John grinned and turned to stretch out on the sofa.

"Marginally larger than it was when you left, I'm certain."

John chortled and let his head go slack on the cushion. "You're insufferable."

"You're the one who said bonding with me was logical. You said you loved me."

John flopped his head to the side, peering at Sherlock vertically. "I do love you," he said simply. "I just think you're insufferable, as well."

"Reassuring."

"I do my best."

An hour later, over dinner, John was watching Sherlock gently pat his belly when he brought up the subject they'd been carefully avoiding. "Your baby."

"What about it?" Sherlock replied warily.

"Do you want to keep it?"

The answer was immediate and definite. "No."

John nodded. "And why not?"

Sherlock lifted his hands and put them firmly on the tabletop. "It will be a constant reminder of a great mistake that I made, and regret."

"Fair enough. Did you ever want to be a parent?"

Sherlock sighed and put down his fork. "It _depended,_ " he said forcefully. "On the circumstances, and the person."

"And which of those isn't fulfilled in this situation?"

"The circumstances, obviously," Sherlock hissed, frowning.

"I just had to be sure." John put down his own fork and reached across the table to take Sherlock's hands in his own. "If I told you that I would love this child as much as I would one whose genetics were half mine, would you believe me?"

Sherlock looked into John's eyes, then down at their joined hands, and back up to John. "I want to believe it," he murmured, "But it's illogical."

"I want you to believe me on this. I already love your baby, Sherlock, and even though part of me wishes it was mine, another part tells me that it doesn't matter genetically whose DNA combined to make the baby. It's who raises it that matters."

\-------

Sherlock laid awake in bed that night, long after John's breathing had evened out and his mate had entered REM sleep. Staring out the bedroom window at the moors, lit only by a half moon and eerily foggy, Sherlock contemplated. Did John really mean it? Would he really want the baby wriggling in his belly, would he really treat it as he would his own flesh and blood?

Was John honest?

More importantly, could Sherlock trust him?

Fact: John was a natural-born parent.

Fact: John's eyes lit up whenever Sherlock put his hands on his swelling middle, in a way that he was sure couldn't be faked.

Conclusion: John was eager to raise Sherlock's baby.

Fact: Sherlock found himself getting attached, more metaphorically than physically (as 'physically' was already long completed), to his baby.

Fact: Sherlock loathed the idea of handing his newborn infant to a couple he didn't know, to raise it in a way he was certain wouldn't be up to his standards.

…Fact: Sherlock had just called it 'his' baby. Twice.

Conclusion: Sherlock had at least a small desire to keep it.

Fact: John was eager to raise Sherlock's baby.

Fact: Sherlock had at least a small desire to keep it:

Conclusion: It seemed as though he was keeping his baby.

\---------

"Congratulations, John," Sherlock said around a mouthful of cereal the next morning.

"Congratulations?" John scrubbed more sleep from his eyes and looked up, eyes hazy, over his first cup of coffee.

"You're going to be a father." Sherlock took another bite of his cereal.

After a few moments of stunned silence from John, Sherlock looked up. The ex-soldier had set his coffee cup down heavily on the tabletop and was holding his head in his hands, shoulders heaving with great inhalations of breath. "John?"

"Fuck, Sherlock, I…" John took his hands from his eyes, wiping away tears of joy. "I'm gonna be a dad. Thank you, god, thank you so much." He was grinning ear to ear and Sherlock couldn't help but return the smile.

"Your baby's moving, would you like to feel?"

A spike of something hot and happy shot through John's heart at the words 'your baby', and he pushed his chair back and made his way around the table to drop to his knees in front of Sherlock. He pushed the man's shirt up over the swell of his stomach and laid his hands on Sherlock's sides, feeling the baby - _his_ baby - rolling under his palms. He rested his forehead on Sherlock's belly, pressing occasional kisses to the skin as Sherlock petted his head. "I'm gonna be a dad," he whispered into Sherlock's stomach. "Hello, little one, I'm your daddy. And I love you, and I love your papa. God, I'm gonna be a daddy."

Above him, tears dripped from the corners of Sherlock's eyes. He was going to be a father, too. And though the thought was overwhelming, now, he thought, it just might work out.

\------

Christmas morning dawned bright and clear - and cold. John stomped back into the house, toes numb and nose red with the chill.

"And how was everyone this morning?" Sherlock inquired, at the stove mixing a sweet-smelling dough.

"Fine, but Marjorie's not giving as much milk as usual. I don't know what's wrong, she seems to be eating fine." John took off his coat and wellies and stepped into the kitchen, wrapping his arms around Sherlock from behind and sliding his hands around Sherlock's middle.

"Stop that, your fingers are freezing." Sherlock wiggled until John relented and stepped to lean against the countertop. "And nothing's wrong with Marjorie. She's due to dry up soon." At John's inquisitive look, Sherlock elaborated. "She's due to calve in mid April, so we'll dry her up in mid February. Her milk production will decline and we'll just stop milking her. Her body's preparing to give birth, and it'll start producing colostrum for the calf in those two months' break."

"Oh." John was silent for a moment. "That's about when you're due, isn't it?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes, I'll calve around the same time she will."

John laughed and simply watched Sherlock for the next few minutes as he kneaded dough. "Happy Christmas, by the way."

"Happy Christmas indeed. I haven't got a tangible gift for you, but I can tell you what it will be."

John smiled. "Oh yeah? What is it, then?"

Sherlock grinned and continued to knead the dough. "I'm going to give you Gladstone's first calf."

"Really?" John's smile widened and he clasped his hands together. "That's fantastic, Sherlock, thank you!"

It took John until after breakfast to realise that they'd castrated Gladstone.

\------

"I did get you a Christmas gift, you arse, but I don't know if I'm going to give it to you now," John grumbled, as Sherlock nearly howled with mirth on the sofa.

"Don't - get pis, pissy, John, it was a gr-great joke. I d-did get you something, just…" Sherlock dissolved into giggles and John chucked a throw pillow at him. Sherlock deflected and slid down on the couch, his shirt riding up over his stomach as he chuckled.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll go get it. Be right back." John cuffed Sherlock on the head lightly as he walked past, and Sherlock just giggled weakly and waved a hand.

John had moved Sherlock's gift into his vacated box stall bedroom, on the off chance that Sherlock would have the desire to take the car and discover his gift. It was just a small thing, more sentimental value than anything, but he hoped Sherlock would appreciate it. The metal was cool in his palm and the chain swung lightly back and forth as John walked back into the house, hiding the fob watch behind his back and out of Sherlock's line of sight.

He settled onto the couch beside his mate, taking Sherlock's palm and turning it upwards. "I bought you something when I went to town to get groceries. The antique shop just outside of town? The cashier at the grocery said I might find something there."

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock murmured. "I'm not surprised, she's in cahoots with Mrs Turner, who owns the place. Regardless, a nice little shop."

"Right. Well, anyhow, I saw this and for some reason it seemed like something you would like. I don't know that you can use it for much, but it does work, at least." John took his hand out from behind his back and dropped the fob into Sherlock's hand, coiling the silver chain to the side.

"Oh," Sherlock breathed, and pulled it closer to look at the embossing on the fob. "It's lovely, John," he murmured, tracing his finger around the intricate patterns and admiring the watch's face. The hands ticked delicately, clicking softly as each second passed. "I love it. Thank you."

"You're welcome, love," John replied, and leaned down to peck a kiss to Sherlock's cheek. "Glad you like it."

"And I did get you something, really. Let me-" Sherlock grunted and pushed himself upwards, rubbing his stomach lightly as he rose to his feet. "It's nothing much, really, just something I did while you were out tending the sheep a few weeks ago." Sherlock walked into their bedroom and came back out with a large sheet of paper, which he handed to John carefully. "It's not anything great, but it's the best I could do."

John gaped at the sketch in his hands. It was of him and Gladstone, outside the barn going on a walk. Gladstone's tail flicked at flies and the smile on John's face was wide and genuine. Though the pencil marks were rough, the drawing was accurate, and Sherlock had captured the moment perfectly. "Thank you," John whispered, eyes dampening as he took in the tiny details - the spots on Gladstone's side, the white hairs in his tail, the wrinkles in John's denims and the splatters of mud on both of their legs.

"You're welcome, John. Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

\----------

They spent New Years' in each other's arms, bringing in the new year with John deep inside Sherlock. They spent Sherlock's birthday the same way, and many days following. Sherlock was starting to reach the point in his pregnancy where he needed his Alpha the most, and thankfully, his Alpha was more than happy to provide.

Marjorie dried up in mid-February, just as Sherlock started to produce milk. His breasts were puffy and tender for a few days, and one evening as they were sat on the sofa, Sherlock nearly dozing off as John stroked his swollen stomach, that he felt his shirt dampen. "John," Sherlock murmured, and sat up on John's lap, palms brushing his chest and coming away wet. "Oh."

"You're producing milk?" John asked inquisitively as Sherlock pulled his shirt off, baring his belly and chest.

"Apparently. I'll have to unearth a brassiere from somewhere."

John snorted. "You ordered bras?"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock responded, "Of course. I knew I'd be lactating, so I ordered padded bras and several for nursing. Several weeks after you arrived."

John pulled Sherlock back down to rest across his lap. "Forward thinking. I like that." Sherlock only hummed. "You're going to breastfeed the whole time, then?"

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, the hand on his stomach sliding back and forth slowly. "Research has shown that it provides the best start for an infant. I'd be a woefully bad parent if I didn't breastfeed."

John chuckled. "I see. You and your research…" he was silent for a few moments. "You'll be a great dad, Sherlock."

Sherlock opened one eye and looked up at John. "You think so?"

"Yeah. You're smart, and a fast learner, if your finesse at farm chores is any indicator. And I think you really do care about your baby."

"Our baby," Sherlock corrected gently, and sighed. "I suppose you're right. I think you'll be a more intuitive parent than I, though. You're much better at nurture."

"Doctor," John pointed out. "Part of the job description."

Sherlock nodded. "But regardless, I think we'll make a…an ideal team."

"Yeah," John breathed, and laid his hands on Sherlock's exposed belly. "I think we will. I can hardly wait."

\---------

Weeks passed, and Sherlock's stomach swelled, and swelled, and swelled, until he finally gave up his few measly morning chores to John. It was all he could do to heave himself out of bed in the morning, as his baby grew and sapped his energy. His belly hung full and round, sticking out the bottom of the few remaining shirts he could pull on. His breasts were tender, too, small but full and pert. He felt more comfortable when wearing a bra, now, even though at first the feeling was unfamiliar and strange.

John's chores got marginally easier as time went on, with Gladstone long weaned and Marjorie dried off. The sheep, Sherlock said, would last the winter without John's help, so his duties were over until lambing season began.

The last month of Sherlock's pregnancy passed slowly, and Sherlock was open with his discomfort. His back ached, his feet hurt after any amount of time standing, any kicks the baby gave were borderline painful. They both waited anxiously for the day Sherlock went into labour.

But his due date came and went, and with each day that went by, Sherlock grew more and more uncomfortable. "I need it out of me," he sighed, after his waddle became so heavy and pronounced that he could hardly walk across the living room.

"I know, love. I'm sorry," John replied, and pulled Sherlock to sit beside him on the couch, rubbing his back and shoulders. "Not long, now. Any day."

The twentieth day of April dawned bleak and drizzly, and Sherlock spent the morning in bed with a hot pad on his back as John did chores. He couldn't bring himself to move; his spine smarted and ached with a fury he had never experienced. Nine months gestation was too long, let alone nine months and five days.

After a light lunch - all he could manage, really - John joined him in bed, rubbing his swollen stomach and talking quietly to the baby. "Come on out, love. Daddy's tired, and you've got to be all cramped up in there. Why don't you come out and say hi? I promise, it's not as bad out here as you might think."

Sherlock winced as his back throbbed, and he managed to drift off to sleep in the middle of the afternoon.

He didn't even realise John had left to do chores until an urgent tapping on his shoulder rousted him. "Uh, Sherlock? I think Marjorie's in labour, um, I don't know what to do."

"Oh, bugger." Sherlock grumbled and pushed himself up onto elbows, his back smarting as he did so. "How's she acting?"

John grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. "Like she's in labour? I don't know. Pacing, mooing, her vulva's all swollen and loose…"

"Yes, fine, I believe you. Help me up and to get dressed, I'll come out and see what needs done."

John shook his head. "No, no, just tell _me_ what to do, I don't want you up and moving around."

"Don't coddle me, John," Sherlock snarled. "I'm pregnant, not fragile. Help me up." John reluctantly pulled Sherlock to his feet, and Sherlock bit back a moan at the throb that radiated out from his back. "Draw me up a bucket of warm water, I'll meet you out at the barn." Sherlock bent with a grunt and pulled on a pair of trousers, splayed wide in the front and held in place with a bit of string.

"No, I'm not letting you walk out there on your own. It's pouring buckets of rain, you could slip and fall. I'm waiting for you." Sherlock almost snarled an argument, but stopped at the look on John's face.

"Fine," he conceded, and finished dressing, pulling on a work shirt and coat and waddling slowly to the front door, John close behind. John helped him into his wellies, and they opened the front door, instantly hit with a blast of cold rain as they stepped outside.

"She certainly picked a good day to give birth," Sherlock muttered, walking heavily abreast John as they trudged through the mud. "Very convenient, on several counts."

Marjorie was indeed in labour, and Sherlock slipped a halter over her head and led her into a box stall, tying her tight to the wall. "Obstetrical chains, in the milk house. Wash them off, bring them back with that bucket of water I wanted. I'll sleeve her to palpate."

John nodded and trotted out around the corner to grab the chains and water Sherlock needed, wondering what Sherlock meant by 'sleeve'. His question was answered when he arrived back to see Sherlock, belly pressed firmly up against Marjorie's rear, up to his armpit in her rectum. "That, erm, seems intimate. And the wrong orifice to check labour."

Sherlock grunted and pressed in further. "I don't want to damage the walls of the birth canal. I can check dilation and labour from here. And…she is indeed labouring, I can feel the feet. Another few pushes and she'll have them out. It's anterior, thankfully."

John couldn't help but laugh nervously at Sherlock's analysis. In a short period of time, it would be John checking Sherlock's body for dilation and labour, trying to feel their baby as it came out.

"Alright, I need the water now, I'm going to scrub up and help. We'll pull the calf to expedite labour." At that, John blanched, but helpfully lifted the bucket so Sherlock didn't have to bend to dip his arms in. "Give me one chain." John handed Sherlock the still wet stainless steel chains, and Sherlock pushed the chain through the larger loop on the end, making a slip loop. He held it open and hooked it over his thumb, and pressed his hand inside Marjorie's swollen vulva. "Ssh, that's a girl. We'll get this baby out of you." Sherlock made a face and pushed in further, trying to hook the chain over a slippery hoof.

Sherlock was glad that John was facing the other direction. His back was throbbing almost continually now, the dull ache he'd woken up with spreading out with each pulse and tightening his stomach. If he didn't know any better, he'd think that he was-

"Fuck. Buggering fuck," Sherlock cursed, glad for the cover of a thunderclap masking his expletives.

"Did you say something, Sherlock?" John asked loudly, trying to be heard over the storm.

"No, nothing. Having trouble with this hoof, is all." Sherlock did manage to slip the chain around and pull it tight, tugging a few times to make sure it was secure. "Okay, John, hold the middle of the chain taut while I try and hook the other hoof. This is where it gets difficult."

With John pulling tight on the chain, Sherlock could be certain that the hoof he'd already secured would stay in the chain's grip. He made a loop of the other end of the long chain, pushing his hand deep within once more to find the other hoof. "You're in the way," he muttered to his stomach, as the roundness prevented him from getting the angle of entrance correct. As if in response, his belly tightened again with another contraction, and it was all Sherlock could do to keep from crying out with the pain. It seemed that now he knew what the pain was, it hurt worse.

"Finally!" Sherlock said triumphantly, and withdrew his arm, slick with fluids, gripping the chain tight in one hand and keeping tension on the legs. "There's an old comealong hanging on the other side of the barn. A hook on both ends, crank and handle in the middle. Lots of cable. Bring it over."

When John disappeared out of the box stall, Sherlock let himself have a few moments to whine low in his throat. His stomach was rock hard and suddenly so low he could hardly stand it, his baby dropping into position and making him feel heavy and slow. "Christ, baby, you picked a very opportune time, didn't you?" he muttered, and pressed a hand to his low belly.

John came back into the stall a few moments later, and handed the comealong to Sherlock. He hooked the short cable to the chain and handed the long cable to John, flipping the gear so John could pull the cable out and attach it to the wall. When the cable was stretched, Sherlock started to crank until it was taut, and then paused, waiting for a contraction. "I'll have to guide the head out," he said, breathing heavily and hoping he wasn't giving himself away. Crank when I tell you, but not too fast. I don't want her to tear."

"Are you alright, Sherlock? You're not hurting, are you?" John asked, holding the comealong in both hands and watching Sherlock intently.

"No, I'm fine," Sherlock replied instantly, and turned his attention back to Marjorie. He could feel as her own body contracted, and Sherlock slipped his arm inside and cried out as her muscles tightened around him. "Christ, girl, that's not helping me any," he gasped, and then called to John, "crank! Crank, for god's sake!"

Sherlock fumbled for the calf's nostrils and gripped them between his thumb and forefinger, feeling the amniotic sac rupture and soak his arm and trousers. "We've got to get it out fast, the sac just broke," he grunted, and motioned for John to keep going, keep cranking.

"Okay, Sherlock?" John asked, pausing in his cranking as Marjorie's contraction ended. "Everything alright?"

"Fine, we just need to try and get it out in the next several contractions or it might suffooooooooh-" Sherlock moaned as Marjorie contracted again, and his own body followed suit. "Crank, god," he gasped, and clutched his own hardening belly as he tried to guide Marjorie's calf out. The head was huge, but facing the right direction, blessedly, and Marjorie herself was no small cow. By the time the contraction ended, the calf's feet were out, and Sherlock could see the bulge of its nose following close behind.

"If we get it out to its neck the next contraction, we'll be fine," Sherlock panted, his legs shaking as his body relaxed. "Crank like the wind, John." John affirmed Sherlock's statement with a nod and both men were silent as they waited for Marjorie.

The next contraction was strong, and Sherlock was glad he no longer had his arm deep inside as he watched the cow pushing and straining. He would be doing this soon, he thought with a wan grimace. Behind him, John worked the comealong furiously, and with a rush of fluid the calf's head and neck slid forth, leaving its legs dangling and tongue lolling.

"Come on, calf, perk up," Sherlock murmured, moving its head around with both hands, encouraging it to breathe. "Keep cranking, John, just a few more and it'll be out."

The stall was filled with the sound of rain and gears clicking for the next few seconds, and then with a wet, slick noise, the calf fell to the ground. Sherlock eased himself slowly to his knees beside the calf and picked a piece of straw from the bedding, folding it in half and sticking it in the calf's nostril and clearing its airway of fluid and afterbirth. He rubbed his hands quickly along its wet sides, working the amniotic fluid into an accidental lather, trying to get the calf to "breathe, dammit, breathe!" he cried, and pounded his fist against the calf's ribs before rubbing his sides again.

Finally, the calf coughed, and its head lifted weakly from the straw, and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and sank back to sit in the straw. "Untie Marjorie," he said quietly, barely audible over the roar of the rain outside.

As he watched his cow lick her new heifer calf clean, Sherlock leaned back against the wall, hands rubbing his belly all over. John was watching the newborn in awe, and Sherlock had to admit, it was a unique experience; this baby calf was taking its first breaths, her mother licking her clean, and soon, she would have her first meal. First steps, first weak moo - it was a day of firsts.

As another contraction gripped his middle, Sherlock knew that it would be a day of firsts for him, as well.

He waited in the stall, watching John watch the calf. His mate helped it when it lurched to wobbly feet, trying to stand, steadying it and holding it in place, hands on damp hair, as Marjorie encouraged her baby to walk around. He managed to keep quiet, riding crests of increasing pain as his body worked to birth his baby. Even after all this time waiting, Sherlock wasn't sure he was ready.

At last, with a coinciding crash of thunder, Sherlock's waters broke, and he moaned lowly.

The noise made John turn to look at Sherlock, who had been sat in the corner of the stall since Marjorie had her calf, rubbing his stomach with both hands and staying silent. He took in Sherlock's pale face, the stillness of his form, the sheen of sweat on his brow, and now, the wetness spreading across his trousers. "Oh, Sherlock," he sighed, and left Marjorie's calf to kneel beside his mate.

"I'm having a baby, John," Sherlock moaned, and John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's temple, taking the man's hands in his own and squeezing.

"I know you are, love. Let's get you inside, okay?" Sherlock nodded and let John pull him to his feet, and it was all he could do to keep from crying out. His muscles were stiff from pulling Marjorie's calf, and now, from labour, and his back protested loudly as John balanced him.

Sherlock's belly was low and heavy, and felt hard beneath his hands. "It hurts," he uttered, and staggered forward as John's hand guided him out of the stall.

"I know, I'm sure it does. But it won't last long. You're pretty far along, if your waters have already broken." John gave his mate a reassuring smile and rubbed his lower back as Sherlock lurched forward, waddling slow step by slow step out of the barn. The rain was still buffeting against the doors of the barn, and both men were instantly soaked the moment they stepped outside. It took twice as long to make it back to the house as it had to make it to the barn two hours earlier, and Sherlock was forced to stop twice to moan and sway his way through two long, hard contractions. He was hardly able to manage the steps of the front porch, and he leaned heavily on John as the doctor fumbled with the door.

"It's coming, John, I can feel it," Sherlock gritted out as John peeled his wet clothes off. He clutched at the doorframe and then stood, shivering, waiting for John to dry him off.

"Let's get you in the shower first, love, get you warmed up and then dried off. Better a damp heat than a dry cold." John grimaced in sympathy when Sherlock waddled forward, his belly so impossibly low that it was terribly difficult to walk. Sherlock whimpered when John helped him into the shower stall, rubbing his stomach and gritting his teeth. John slid a hand between Sherlock's legs to see how far along he was, and was unsurprised to find that he was almost fully dilated and effaced. "After you get out, I'll check you again, but I think you'll be ready to push."

Sherlock only grimaced and rocked under the stream of water in reply, his hips aching and spine threatening to split as wave after wave of tension swept through his body. When the chill finally left his bones and John shut off the water to towel them both dry, Sherlock stopped and gripped John's arms, looking him in the eye.

"I am going to need your help," he ground out, legs shaking as a contraction rippled through his belly. "I need you with me."

John nodded and gave a narrow smile. "Of course, Sherlock. Of course."

\---------

"God! Fuck, I can't do it, John, it _hurts,_ " Sherlock cried, rolling onto his side and pulling his legs shut and close to his body. "Hurts so bad, I can't do it."

"Yes you can!" John encouraged, crawling across the mattress to rub his mate's back and thighs. "You can do it, you have to. Your baby needs you to." _And if you can't do it, I'll have to cut you open, and I don't trust myself._ "Just breathe with me, and push as hard as you can. You can take the pain."

Sherlock whined and tossed his head on the pillow, fighting his body every inch not to push. "Can't," he moaned, rocking up and down.

"You _have_ to, Sherlock. It's not exactly an option. There's one way this baby can come out, and it involves you and a lot of work. Come on, love. You can do it."

Sherlock's body answered for him, his muscles going tight and moving his baby further into his birth canal. Sherlock roared and gave into the need to push, his back arching and toes digging into the sheets as he strained. John laid tentative fingers on Sherlock's hole, stretching the skin in preparation for the oncoming baby. "That's it, love, work with your body. You can do this."

For long minutes Sherlock strained, working his baby further and further into his stretched canal and sobbing in pain. For every protest that he couldn't do it, John had three reasons why he could, and every time, Sherlock relented and pushed again. Finally, John could see the baby's head emerging, a patch of wet hair showing through the stretching skin. "Burns!" Sherlock cried, and reached his hands down over the bulge of his stomach to try and soothe the burning pain he felt there. John's hands met Sherlock's scrabbling fingers, squeezing them gently.

"I know, Sherlock, it's crowning, your baby's crowning. It's stretching the skin, that's why it burns. Don't push for a little while, okay? Let your body move it out, I don't want you to tear."

Sherlock spread his thighs wide as he could in response, panting as his belly heaved with a contraction. He moaned low in his throat and took John's hand in his own, gripping it tight as he fought not to push. Slowly, inch by inch, John could see the head emerging, and he moved his hand down to stretch the skin as the head pushed free. "That's it, Sherlock, almost out," he murmured, squeezing Sherlock's hand tight.

The head finally came free, face down and reddened. "Good, Sherlock, oh my god, your baby's coming out. Look at that," John breathed, and moved Sherlock's hand down to touch his baby's head. He looked up to see the man with tears streaming down his face, eyes shut tight against sensation and emotion. "You're doing so good, not long now. Keep going, my love, my sun and stars. You can do it."

Sherlock seemed to get a second wind after the baby's head was out, redoubling his efforts to birth his child and pushing even harder than he had before. He wailed throatily and writhed as the baby's shoulders began to emerge, almost impossibly wide behind a head that had seemed so massive itself. John could only murmur words of encouragement, often not audible over the crash of thunder and Sherlock's own cries.

At last, at last, the top shoulder protruded, and John could slide a finger beneath the baby's arm and pull along with his labouring mate. "Almost, Sherlock, give me one more big push, good, oh god, there it…here it comes, Sherlock!" John got his other hand down just in time to catch the baby's body as it slid free, wet and bloody and really quite small for as much work as it was to deliver it.

Sherlock was sobbing, eyes open and watching John as intently as he could through the torrent of tears streaming from his eyes. "Give her to me," he choked out, and John did just that, handing over Sherlock's newborn daughter and letting his own tears fall as he watched father and daughter for the first time.

"She's so small," Sherlock whispered, clutching his baby girl close and rocking the whimpering infant back and forth on his chest. "She's so small, so small."

"Your little baby," John said, nodding and crawling up the bed to sit beside an exhausted Sherlock. "Your little baby girl."

"Our baby girl," Sherlock corrected softly, and looked up at his mate with red, teary eyes.

"Ours," John echoed, and took Sherlock's hand.

\--------

The twenty-first day of April dawned bright and sunny, albeit more than a little damp from the storms the night before. Marjorie's baby calf, Maisie, met John eagerly at the gate for her bottle, and John fed her happily, eager himself to finish chores and go back to the house to spend time with his mate and their newborn baby. Sherlock had decided to name her Mary, as she was his 'little lamb', and John had chuckled and kissed little Mary on the forehead as she snuffled in sleep.

Mary was drinking from Sherlock's breast as contentedly as Maisie had suckled from her bottle when John arrived back inside, perching on the sofa next to Sherlock to watch as his mate fed their daughter. She was cleaned up and a little less wrinkled than she had been the night before, but was every bit as beautiful as she had been when she was brand-new and bloody. "How's our little lamb doing today?" John cooed, brushing a finger down her tiny soft cheek.

"She's very hungry, apparently," Sherlock replied, smiling down at Mary as he readjusted her position on his chest. "Would you want to burp her, when she's done?"

"Of course," John grinned and leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder. "You did really well last night, delivering Marjorie's calf and then your own baby. That was a lot of work."

Sherlock nodded in agreement and stroked his baby's dark hair as she made small, contented noises against his breast. "I can't say I disagree. But worth it, on both counts."

John sat up and pressed a kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth, and then gazed down at their infant daughter. Nodding, he smiled. "Yes. Worth it."


End file.
